


An Aftermath

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Comeplay, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=907480#t907480">this</a> prompt on the CP meme. Because Martin is upset and Douglas just doesn't know when to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Should I feel guilty for making such a cute fandom and pairing ridiculously filthy? No? Ok then. It should have been a quick PWP but my muse wanted an angst fest on Douglas' part. Heed the warning. Also beta-d by the wonderful  [](http://foxtoast.livejournal.com/profile)[**foxtoast**](http://foxtoast.livejournal.com/) , my life saviour! ^^
> 
> Spoilers: Spoilers for Qikiqtarjuaq.
> 
> Warning: My pathetic attempts at writing Hate!sex. Seriously guys- Biting and kicking and pinning each other to walls. Also some come!play and dub!con
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Do not own. *sob*

**An Aftermath**

“I told you to leave me alone.”

Martin all but growled this, his eyes flashing angrily at Douglas, who was a little more than just miffed by this point. Honestly, he thought by now the boy could forgive and forget. Douglas was already past the forgetting stage and rolled his eyes in response, staring blandly at Martin.

“You did. But I do believe I’ve chose to ignore it.” Although as to why, he didn’t quite know. Something about this indefinite feud between them had sparked his curiosity, had almost but not quite riled him to the point where if Martin didn’t overlook this whole Qikiqtarjuaq fiasco soon, Douglas wouldn’t have been held responsible for the scathing words exchanged.

He didn’t know why he was angry, though. Martin did apologise. Perhaps it was the man’s ever so persistent obligation to hold a grudge against Douglas that did it. Perhaps Martin was just being frustratingly irritating. It wouldn’t have been anything new.

That or Douglas hadn’t fully accepted the apology. Although he would have thought humiliating Martin was enough to wipe the slate clean. Tit for tat.

The score was even now.

However, judging by the Martin’s incredulous stare, perhaps they weren’t as even as he originally thought.

“Why?”

Douglas frowned at the response.

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?” Martin snapped. “Why? Why can’t you just leave me alone for even a-a moment?”

Ah. It had suddenly become obvious that Martin hadn’t quite forgotten Douglas’ earlier joke. It was no surprise though; Douglas couldn’t expect anything else. Martin had been avoiding him all day, silent and subdued, responding placidly to accept an offer of coffee from Arthur, or to confirm his presence for their next booked flight on Monday. All without, Douglas found, more than five words aimed at himself.

 _Leave me alone, Douglas._

It was a little more than just irking.

Thus it was reasonably explainable to determine why the man was aggravated with Martin. Or why Martin was irritated with Douglas. The lines between them blurred slightly when casting the blame for the events on the way to Qikiqtarjuaq, smudged and damp against the canvas that was their odd and somewhat foolish friendship, if one could call it such a thing. Perhaps it was a mere acquaintance.

It was vaguely disconcerting to discover that their perfectly sound working relationship was spoiled with their petty feud.

Douglas was adamant it was a joke. A game. A laugh.

Even if it was at Martin’s expense.

It certainly pleased him, if it was any consolation.

Martin narrowed his eyes, the frosty irises darkened, a biting chill cast toward Douglas as the man stood his ground, gazing back coolly, unfazed. The setting sun emitted a dull lavender through the portacabin blinds, streaked a feisty orange as the sun waved goodbye to the day. The shadows spread across the room and soon it became harder to see, to glimpse the utter contempt Martin was bombarding Douglas with, the man’s sudden derision, something Douglas wasn’t ready to admit anytime soon, something he hadn’t experienced from the gawky and unassuming man.

He didn’t think Martin had the ability to hate someone.

Douglas raised an eyebrow, a movement so blasé he could glimpse, with muted satisfaction, Martin’s jaw clench in frustration. “And what,” he started. “-makes you think I’m here for you?”

It had come out a tad more contemptuous than he actually intended, but it was far too late for regrets. Martin bristled, his fire-streaked hair glinting faintly in the sun’s setting light.

“Well, why else are you here then?” he spat, back straight, shoulders pulled taut. Throughout the time Douglas had known Martin (granted it wasn’t _that_ long, but long enough for a man with Douglas’ eye) he had begun to fixate on the small quirks Martin had. Such as when he sagged when defeated, or when he would jut his knee if nervous. A particular recurring one was the lip curling, back ramrod straight to assert what little height he had when offended.

Such as now.

Martin glared at him. “Hmm? You never do your log books. In fact, I don’t think there’s ever been a reason for you to be here.” He turned away, his attention back to the papers scattered on the desk, his fingers clenching hard around his pen. “No doubt coming to get your kicks out of humiliating me again.”

“Hold on,” Douglas replied, indignant, ruffled with the accusation. “Humiliating you? I hope you’re not referring to that whole kicky-kicky thing?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion and Martin spun around, his face flushed in anger.

“Qikiqtarjuaq, Douglas. And _you_ purposefully humiliating me in front of Nancy!”

“No, I was settling the score,” Douglas exclaimed, bristling with irritation. “We’re even now, and why on earth are you still on that? It’s in the past!”

“It was yesterday!”

He rolled his eyes, pursing his lips in resentment. “It was a joke, Martin.” His annoyance was flaring wildly, growing with every gesture of Martin’s pathetic childishness. This wasn’t anything new; Douglas always teased Martin. Anytime the man wasn’t slyly mocking someone would have been a surprise and he found himself insulted that Martin had considered his any different. Granted Douglas found the event particularly genius, especially his innovative brilliance behind the entire scheme. The icing on the cake however, the real grandeur of the whole day was the simple but glorious fact that Douglas didn’t even have to do much to embarrass Martin. The man was quite capable, with his own gauche personality, of mortifying himself.

Douglas failed to see how any of this was his fault.

 _It wasn’t._

Martin grimaced slightly. “It wasn’t a joke, Douglas...” he remarked. “Friends joke.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at this. “Ah, but you quite clearly stated we were friends yesterday.”

Martin’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly as he stared at the other almost incredulously. Hurt, or something akin to it which Douglas could not quite place, gleamed painfully in his frosty eyes. “Yes, yes when I assumed we were...” his voice shivered gently, as if wavering on a crack and Douglas could suddenly feel his smirk melt, the air thickening with accusation and the hurt Martin blatantly displayed.

It was disconcerting.

Douglas didn’t like it.

Martin continued. “Clearly we’re not.”

Douglas fought to keep his smirk, raising an eyebrow in causal indifference. “Aren’t we?”

“No!” Martin suddenly shouted, slamming his pen down, the anger burning rapidly in his eyes concealing the pained hurt within them. It took Douglas’ all not to flinch, his heart, disgustingly, jumping up into his throat. “No, we’re bloody not! We’re not! A friend doesn’t humiliate you a-and go out of their way to embarrass you! You...you...”his shouting died slightly and he averted his gaze to some far off point within the room. “We’re not friends Douglas; you’ve made that quite clear. You don’t...” His voice hardened as he finally brought his gaze up to meet the other’s. Douglas swallowed, keeping his cool, his demeanour as calm as he could allow it, unwilling to let any sign that Martin may or may not have had a point, loose. “You don’t care about anyone other than yourself.”

The accusation was cold, the icy flint sharp, cutting, and almost instantaneously it ignited a spark of fury within Douglas. His heart stuttered, sinking low into his gut as he flared with anger, rising to full height, ready to strike back. Martin could see it, the usual earnest expression now filed and sharpened into distaste. He glared at Douglas, willing silently for the man to speak, goading him. Douglas could see Martin readying himself for whatever derisive, acerbic remark he would bestow, his shoulders squaring, defences up.

The pure irony of this situation however, horrific to Douglas, was that the man had none. He did not know what to say back. Purely because, to an extent, it could have been argued as true. It was disturbing certainly, bewildering for the simple fact that he had only been accused of such a thing by three now-sharply-jaded people, his wives to be exact.

And Martin was now the fourth.

In all honesty, Douglas did not know what to make of it. Thus he did the best he could and denied it.

“That’s not true.” He prided himself on the knowledge that he could remain so nonchalantly composed, indifferent to even some of the most personal and smarting remarks. It was a quality he both exercised and treasured well.

He could not help, however, the twinge of anger he felt when Martin scoffed. “Yes it bloody well is. And anyway, what would you care for?” He sneered, his derision palpable as Douglas’ gut clenched in annoyance. “Why would you want to be friends with someone like me? Unprofessional and...and awkward and ridiculous.” He choked slightly. “I don’t even get paid ”

It was at this point that Douglas decided he had heard enough. Martin was once again spiralling into the whirlpool of such callow self–depreciating nonsense that it had become grating. Even now, a part of Douglas wanted to march forward and knock some sense into the boy. Although he wasn’t entirely sure why. On some level, a minute point in Douglas’ mind, the selfless, altruistic part, as shrivelled and poorly maintained as it was, raised its withered head and presented the thought that perhaps Douglas himself had played a rather focal part in Martin’s lack of self confidence.

In layman’s terms, there was a possibility Douglas was a complete and utter bastard to Martin. Hence the man’s crippling lack of self-esteem.

Despite this possibility however, Douglas chose not to believe it. Yes, he could be a bastard. But Martin’s problems were Martin’s problems and he had absolutely nothing to do with them. And if that wasn’t sufficient justification, the simple fact that Martin was inept enough to cock up his own life, let alone without Douglas needing to add to it, would have been.

Douglas blanched in anger. “Oh stop with all this self-pitying drivel!” he exclaimed. “That’s your problem; it’s like listening to a broken record!”

Something snapped. Douglas could feel the sharp tang in the air, the sudden shift in atmosphere, pinching the back of his neck and clawing at his throat as the momentary silence after his outburst thickened. It stewed, throbbing and muggy and he could feel his lungs grow sticky, each passing breath almost a difficulty to spare. Once again he found himself at a loss to describe his reaction. He felt tensed, waiting for Martin’s response, tentatively tiptoeing the precipice of propriety with a work colleague and the possibility of losing Martin altogether as a friend.

Were they friends?

 _No._

Martin’s jaw clenched, a vein jumping in his throat as the tendons tightened. “Me?” he started, rising to his feet, his eyes wide and burning with disbelief. “Self-pitying? At least I try!” He was shouting now, his face flushed with anger, blazing with fury. Douglas had never seen such a sight before. The transformation from such a meek soul into a rage of a man poisoned with so much vehemence was confounding at best. “At least I try to make an effort! You...you can’t even do that! You always have to play it cool,” his hands flew up in gesture at the sneer. “Cool Douglas Richardson, nothing ever fazes you does it? You act like nothing affects you! Like...like you’re so invincible but no! No you’re not! You’re not!”

He threw his hands up in the air in defeat, breathing heavily and turning away as his words sunk in. After a beat he grimaced in distaste, meeting Douglas’ eyes with no little amount of aggravation. “Look at you,” he began softly enough, every word bitter and haggard as it rolled from his tongue. “You have the nerve to criticise me everything I do. But what about you? You’re hardly the embodiment of perfection, are you?” He turned away and spat “You had to lie about your position here to your own wife! And you have the cheek to call me unprofessional?”

Douglas would have been aghast at the fact that he was trembling with fury if his mind wasn’t so clouded with the actual emotion. Martin had absolutely no right to mock him. “How dare you!” Douglas retorted sharply. “At least I get I paid!”

“I didn’t get fired from Air England!”

Douglas scoffed. “Well at least I had a job instead of begging for one. Really Martin, you can’t get much more pathetic than that.” He smirked at the other’s poorly concealed flinch. Martin’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I’m not pathetic. I’m not the one who...who has to lie about my work. I’m not the one with three failed marriages ”

Douglas finally snapped. “At least I had a marriage! Three at that.” He couldn’t suppress the poison in his words, his anger flaring, sparking at the edges until finally it caught flame, blazing in the small room. Both men charged, bursting with rage. “And you, Martin?” he spat. “What do you have other than your lovely clapped out van? Did you even begin to realise how pathetic it was seeing you try to defend your so-called ‘professionalism’ to Nancy? Even she saw through it.”

He watched with a certain smugness as Martin froze, as the colour drained from his face, his pulse fluttering painfully beneath his pale skin. He watched with a gleeful smirk as Martin finally stopped, as his words finally sunk in. Revenge was sweet and Douglas stared at the other, all shame and perpetual horror at the notion of wounding Martin with something so sharp and personal, dispersing under the fog of anger and the fraught need for reprisal.

“Face it Martin,” he continued, his voice low, alien almost to his own ears. “You’re trying to play the big boys game here. And look where it’s getting you absolutely nowhere.”

The knife was thrust to the hilt, plunged into the soft beating mass and twisted sharply with every harsh, cutting word Douglas stabbed him with. Martin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing softly before averting his gaze, lowering it. He turned away as the silence thickened, as Douglas calmed down, nervous fingers skirting erratically over his wrist before heading forward, attempting to briskly stride from the room.

He didn’t know why he did it. Which was confounding at best, given the man’s penchant for reasoning and explaining most of his actions. Actions which would not be birthed until the most astute and cunning of thought had been injected into them. Once thoroughly prepared, only then would Douglas let action go forth. In this case however, he found himself at a loss to clarify why he could not let go. Why he did not think before reaching out and seizing Martin’s wrist like a snake ensnaring its prey. His fingers clamped tightly over the appendage, feeling the bones chafe, the pulse flutter in dread, like a small bird caught between a cat’s paws. Letting go would have been the best option, the best action to take.

The most wise, at least.

He could have ignored Martin and let the man storm off. They would spend a day or two stewing over what was said and come to the inevitable conclusion that nothing could come of it and that Douglas was right and Martin was wrong. Although that particular fact could be tweaked a little.

Nonetheless though, obstructing Martin from leaving was probably not Douglas’ wisest of decisions.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, his tone harsher than he originally intended. Martin’s wild-eyed glare sparked viciously, both incredulous and venomous as he stared at Douglas.

“Don’t touch me!” Martin exclaimed, shaking the hand off hard. The jolt vibrated hard through his arm, the jerk thrumming painfully through his muscles. He let go but immediately shot out another hand to grab Martin, his body thinking on instinct, on the fevered ire rising within him. It was intoxicating, the release of so much emotion in such a small space, like an implosion, a star exploding. Martin fought him again and pushed him off hard, Douglas barely able to regain some semblance of thought before he seized the man’s shoulders and slammed him into the wall, Martin’s neck bounding forward before his head whipped back and slammed into the wall with an echoing thud.

“What is wrong with you, Martin?!” Douglas shouted, his hands firm on Martin’s shoulders to impede movement. “When are you going to stop acting like a bloody child?”

“Me?!” Martin exclaimed. “It’s you! Why can’t you just piss off for once and leave me alone!” It was the first time Douglas had ever heard Martin curse and the sound of the debasing world spilling from his lips sent a shiver down his spine, the snake of pleasure uncoiling deliciously in his gut.

Martin glared up at the man, his cheeks flushed, eyes wild with fury. “I’ll stop acting like a child when you stop acting like a complete bastard!” he seethed.

Douglas saw red and slammed him harder into the wall, feeling his blood boil. “You’re a spoilt brat, Martin,” he hissed, leaning down closer, his hands clenching tight on the man’s scrawny shoulders. “A pathetic, spoilt little brat that needs to be taught a thing or two about life. A pilot? Bloody hilarious that is all you need to do now is learn how to fly a stupid plane ”

The words died horribly in his mouth as he was cut off by the sharp, stinging contact of the back of Martin’s hand colliding with his cheek. His head whipped to the side by the strength of the blow and it took Douglas a minute to register that he had been struck. After a second the pain came, the deep hot throb blooming across his cheek, flaming violently as his mind finally processed, with no little amount of surprise, the mere notion that Martin had just hit him.

Time seemed to slow from there on, languid, sludgy as it slipped by them, every moment registered with the utmost precision and clarity. From the soft, glowing crimson flushing Douglas’ cheek to the breathy pants coming from Martin as he churned with fury. The air thickened, heady between them, every breath beaded with moisture. They were so close, Douglas could almost feel Martin’s heart thud.

Or was that his?

It was one of theirs. The synchronised beats palpitating in time, fuelled by thoughts of conflict, of a clash, a chance to finally say what they wanted, do what they could. Too much propriety and feigned semblance of respectability eroded what little relationship they had. Had they been what they wanted, said what they wanted to each other from the beginning, perhaps things would have concluded differently.

Not, however, with Douglas growling angrily, seizing a furious fistful of Martin’s fiery curls and pulling him up for a harsh, searing kiss.

One that Martin surprisingly returned wholeheartedly.

It was hot, burning across the thin sensitive skin of their lips, messy and wet. The turmoil of emotion fuelling the kiss caused a great deal of un-coordination; Martin’s lower lip caught somewhat bellow Douglas’, who slunk a hand to grip Martin’s collar, pulling him up further against the wall so they were level.

Soon they pulled away, panting hard, still close enough to see their pupils dilate, bloom into a whirl pool of exhilaration and antagonism. Gunmetal grey met rich chocolate, their lips apart, a faint string of saliva still attaching them before Martin broke the connection, furiously wiping the back of his lips with a hand.

“Let go of me, Douglas...”he whispered, deadly quiet, steady as an undisturbed pool of water, the surface clear and crisp as glass. “Now.”

He should have done. He should have let go and left it at that, ignored the situation, brushed it off as if it were a trifle mundane.

However, whether he couldn’t let go, or simply didn’t want to, remained to be seen. Something about seeing Martin backed into the wall by him, the metaphor of countless teasings finally becoming a physical possibility was too enticing, a beguiling sight he did not want to ruin.

Douglas didn’t realise the hand that was gripping Martin’s collar spread open, fingers curling around the man’s precious neck, feeling soft, hot skin against the pads of his digits, electricity thrumming through them. He could feel Martin’s pulse quiver beneath his hand, protesting futilely, shrinking in fear.

His cock had never been so hard before.

Martin narrowed his eyes but a fraction as Douglas leaned in again, his lips brushing the others as the words spilled from his mouth into Martin’s.

“Make me.”

Martin did nothing but swallow them greedily as Douglas once again bridged the gap between them, the faint clicking of teeth meeting teeth vibrating through the small, dark room. They kissed ferociously, Douglas’ hand twisting hard in Martin’s hair to bring him closer, teeth nipping at the man’s luscious, plump lower lip. Martin made a strangled noise, low and coiling in the base of his throat as his hands skidded up across Douglas’ face. Douglas spared a momentary thought to consider the touch as almost _kind_ before Martin curled his fingers in his hair and wrenched hard, pulling him away. His strength had certainly caught Douglas off guard. Momentarily baffled, he did not anticipate with any sure amount of accuracy Martin slamming him into the wall, gripping his hair hard and leaning in to nip at his lips.

It took a moment for Douglas to grasp a coherent thought before responding to the harsh kiss, his hands curling around his sinewy hips, digging his fingers in, drawing a tight gasp from Martin’s lips. Immediately he took the cue to deepen the kiss, licking at the man’s lips, worrying them with his teeth until the sharp tang of blood whipped the tip of his tongue. Martin whined, his bottom lip crimson, bleeding ever so slightly and Douglas leaned forward to lick it away, gritting his teeth when the man twisted his hair in reprisal.

“You brat,” Douglas huffed breathily, crying out when Martin’s knee jerked out to slam into his thigh. The dull throb of pain made his knees tremble and he pushed forward, twisting around and slamming Martin face first into the wall, a hand tight in the fire-licked curls, the other working hard to tug the man’s shirt out of his trousers. Martin jerked, trying to twist out of Douglas’ grasp but he held on tighter, pushing himself closer to the smaller man.

“Let go,” Martin panted through gritted teeth and Douglas smirked against the nape of his neck, nuzzling in the downy curls coiled there. He could feel Martin tremble, small shivers dancing through his body and he wasn’t sure if it was from fear, anger or arousal. Whatever caused it seemed trivial next to the actual fact that Douglas didn’t want him to stop. Trembling, shaking with arousal, bucking his hips, begging for Douglas to fuck him harder--

Douglas’ hips jerked at the thought, grinding into Martin’s pert, biteable arse. He breathed heavily into the soft skin of his neck. He could hear Martin choke on a breath, feel him swallow the small pocket of air as Douglas abandoned the attempt at tugging his shirt away and reached down, cupping the bulge between his legs and squeezing.

“Fuck...”Martin cursed, the soft noise deliciously dirty from his lips as he grinded forward into Douglas’ palm. It was gorgeous, tantalisingly breathtaking, pinning Martin down, marring the pristine, conceited man with truth, with brutal honesty. Douglas would even stretch as far to say he was teaching Martin a lesson in humility, to chip away at the erect walls of pride the man had built hard and strong around his heart. He would take pleasure, Douglas knew, in watching Martin after this encounter, watching the hot, pink blush steel across his cheeks when Douglas graced him with such a lewd double entendre. Martin would know better from here on.

He would.

Douglas repeated this to himself as he stroked the man through his trousers, ignoring the dull throb of his cheek from the earlier slap and stamping down the small dirty feeling of regret, of blunt horror at the thought of what he was doing.

He heard the small, remorseful voice that reared its head at the worst of times: when fucking a woman who wasn’t his wife. (It was never making love; to call it such a thing would wrongly suggest Douglas had a heart) He heard it when tricking a hapless person out of something. When humiliating Martin just because he could.

He couldn’t quite hear what the voice was saying, muffled as it was, but he could catch small snippets above the passing static of arousal. Some of which held no particular importance to him, some of which he had heard countless times over his life.

One, however, struck a chord in his chest, twanging the string until he was sure he would gasp at the intensity of it all. One he had heard before and even then, brushed it off as nothing, as a mere flicker of passing vacillation.

 _What are you doing to him?_

Perhaps in a different context the thought would have held more weight. However even then Douglas pushed it to the back of his mind, the screaming thought blurred by the tempting smudges of arousal and frustration, which won every time.

He leaned forward, ghosting a breath over the tempting stretch of Martin’s neck, begging to be marred, to be bruised by him. However before he could press his lips to the skin, he was jolted back by a sharp elbow to his stomach. The pain blossomed and bloomed into an aching throb and it gave enough way for Martin to push Douglas off him, to spin around and glare at him, his cheeks flushed, chest heaving for breath.

“You little--” Douglas gritted, swaying slightly as he attempted to brush away the sting of pain smarting his middle. He pushed forward, slamming Martin into the wall, their lips locked in battle, teeth clashing, fingers clawing at one another. He bit sharply at Martin’s lip, drawing forth a rather startled cry before twisting his hands in the ginger curls and dragging Martin closer, insinuating a knee between the man’s legs to grind up against his erection.

“A-ah!” Martin moaned, plump lips pulled back with the cry, brows knitted together as his hands scrambled for purchase, digging into Douglas’ shoulders hard. Douglas winced against Martin’s lips, swallowing the sweet, heady huff of breath Martin released as he ground his thigh up against the man’s swelling erection, rubbing against it firmly.

In the small, hot moment they had come together, the air within the room seemed to disperse slowly, breathing becoming increasingly difficult. Not that Douglas ever had an issue with it. With his lips firmly sealed to Martin’s, the thought of breathing, of removing his mouth from his was an abject notion in itself. He let the moisture bead on his skin, his cheeks flushed, nerves thrumming from the onslaught of emotions attacking them from every corner. The hurried neediness of it all was too exhilarating, too exciting. That such a feeling was finally within Douglas’ grasp, tight and hot, made his heart pump with fierceness.

It was too erotic.

Martin mewled as he rocked against Douglas’ thigh, rutting against it shamelessly like a dog in heat and god was the sight delicious. It was burned forever into his mind, the crimson flush on Martin’s cheeks, the breathy little pants falling from his swollen lips with every thrust. Priceless fodder for a lonely day.

Douglas pulled Martin away, dragging him from the wall, their lips still attached. His hand twisted in Martin’s curls as he curved him away from the wall and pressed him against the worn wooden desk, now strewn with forgotten paperwork and flight records. A knee jerked up, slamming into the back of Martin’s, making the man cry out and buckle over the desk, his cheek pressed firmly against it, pink and beautiful against the cold dark surface of the shabby wood.

Martin gritted his teeth and groaned, wiggling to try and push Douglas off, who was leaning heavily over the man’s back, one hand in his hair, the other pinning one of Martin’s hands behind his back.

“Let go!” Martin snapped, trying to crane his head to catch a better glimpse of his captor. Douglas however, did no such thing and held on tighter, twisting Martin’s wrist a fraction harder before unravelling his fingers in the soft curls and dragging them down torturously over the man’s knobbly spine, tracing his index finger between each prominent vertebrae. He could feel the heat radiate from Martin’s face, the hot skin burn against his own, the heat burning through his nerves, his body, before lighting a fire to his groin. It was wondrously erotic, sensual in the mere fact that such an experience, the pure sensation of carnal sex, of heat and flush and sweat, was not so easily captured in everyday life. The earthy, raw touch of Martin’s heat upon him, his anger and frustration and everything the two wanted to scream at each other, was hotter than anything else Douglas could have ever hoped to experience.

He nuzzled his face in the back of Martin’s neck, licking the salt that had gathered there, swallowing the shivers that began to form when he dragged his hand down further, winding it around to rub him through his trousers, cupping Martin’s crotch and squeezing.

“Look at you,” Douglas whispered, the rumble barely audible above their racing heart beats. The moist little breath tickled Martin’s ear and Douglas could feel him tense, trying not to flinch from the feel of it.

“Shut up,” Martin gritted out, trying hard not to buck forward into Douglas’ hand. The older man smirked and ground himself against Martin’s arse, biting back a groan of appreciation at the elevating pleasure thrumming through his body.

“You think,” Douglas started, pressing harder on Martin’s wrist until the man gave in and released a piteous whine. “That you’re the boss ”

“I’m higher than you!” Martin spat and Douglas slammed Martin harder into the desk, growling angrily.

“No, Martin,” he snapped. “You’re not! And when are you going to learn that?”

A moment passed, Martin’s eyes firmly squeezed shut as he tried to ride out the wave of dizziness overcoming him as his head smashed against the wood. They remained pressed against each other for the better part of a moment, the heat from their skin making the air tingle, perspire with moisture, with lust. Douglas could feel the soft silk of Martin’s curls against his cheek and he spared himself a second to wonder why his hair was so soft. He brushed his lips against the curve of Martin’s ear, moving the hand away from the man’s wrist to balance himself on the desk, palm pressed firmly on it as he very nearly kissed the silken, damp skin behind Martin’s ear.

“Poor Martin,” he crooned softly, feeling the swell of mirth, the undeniable urge to taunt Martin pull at his thoughts. The familiar feeling of laughter elicited by the man, whether because of him or with him, bubbled within. He chuckled, unable to repress it. The entertainer, the smooth, downy joker that he was, could not help but rise to the surface. It fused with the scathing contempt left behind by the slowly diminishing but ever present anger, creating a bitter, if not slightly cynical comedian, ready to strike Martin where it hurt him the most.

His career. His hopes and dreams and that stupid little boy who thought he could get somewhere.

And despite the small, withered voice in his head screaming and begging at Douglas to _stop_ and _let go_ and _just leave Martin alone for once_ , he found that he couldn’t. They had gone too far now to turn back. Victory, or something darker but not quite akin to it, was almost in Douglas’ grasp, grazing the soft stripped pads of his finger tips against that shining black void that looked like gold dust. Triumph, or whatever it was, seemed too familiar to Douglas to let go, and looking down at his pathetic excuse for a captain just fuelled his desire to reach for it.

Once again he found himself ignoring that voice, the little one that held the box of guilt Douglas spent too much time disregarding. Guilt, or some form of it, was not inconceivable by any stretch, but was most certainly a troublesome emotion that could quite successfully, he learnt over the many long years he spent practising such an art, be discounted for nothing. It would become a simple foolery of the mind.

He pressed his lips to Martin’s ear, delighting in the small, broken tremor that ran through the man before once more plunging the final blow into the man’s pride and heart.

“You should’ve become that aeroplane instead.”

He didn’t know if he had purposefully goaded Martin for the reaction he received or if he genuinely did not see the attack coming. The former suggested two wholly different aspects, one being that Douglas really was the bastard everyone claimed he was and did indeed provoke Martin simply for his own amusement. However, it also suggested that he could not let sleeping dogs lie, that he wanted a reaction, he wanted Martin’s attention. It didn’t quite appeal to Douglas, but then again, neither did the thought of being caught surprised, which if he was, meant that he had indeed meant to hurt Martin till he crumbled and broke and would not have risen to attack him.

It also meant Douglas was not fully in top form.

Either way, he could not find a sufficient reason for his actions even if he wanted one, which he particularly didn’t. It just meant that when Martin did strike back, jolting backwards and slamming his fist hard onto Douglas’ hand splayed on the desk, there was no reason to doubt that Douglas both deserved it and did not see it coming.

If such a feat could exist.

There was a sickening thud, a sharp bloom of pain shooting in spikes through Douglas’ hand and up his arm as he cried out, stumbling backward and clutching the offended appendage. Martin twisted around and lunged forward and the two fell back against the floor with a crash, grappling with each other until Douglas was successfully able to manoeuvre Martin bellow him, pinning the man down, staring angrily at him. Something about the anger, the frustration boiling within him blocked out everything else: the pain that would have wracked his body, the sting in his cheek, the ache in his stomach, the now crushing throb in his hand. He glared down at the panting Martin, both their cheeks flushed, sweaty and sticky and hot, their erections screaming for release and attention.

Martin glared at Douglas, his plump, swollen pout crimson, glistening slightly in whatever little light flickering through the blinds. Flushed and ruddy and so utterly debauched, Douglas could not resist when Martin jutted his chin upward, a wordless invitation of begrudgingly but inevitable consent, and dived down to capture the kiss he deemed rightfully his. He pressed hard, coaxing Martin’s soft mouth open, diving deeper until the art had become smudged, wet and sloppy as they bit and nipped at one another, as they stole touch starved kisses as if dehydrated, a parched man trekking haplessly through a desert.

“Oh...” Martin gasped, arching forward as Douglas reached down with horrifyingly clumsy hands, palming the front of Martin’s trousers as he quickly unbuckled the cheap belt, pulling it open to finger the buttons and zipper. Soon enough, with little coercion from Martin, Douglas loosened the trousers enough so when he flipped him around with a guttural growl and tugged both the trousers and underwear down, they crumpled around Martin’s knees with little protest. Douglas spared a moment to admire the sight of Martin’s pert bottom, so deliciously untarnished. He wanted to kiss it, bite it, hit it. He wanted to make Martin arch his slender back, the small of it dipping beautifully as he moaned. He wanted to fuck it more than anything he ever wanted, to feel Martin come, that hot, burning muscle, clenching tightly around his cock.

Martin made not a single move when Douglas draped himself over the man, not a single sound, his face pressed between his arms as he leant on the hard floor. Douglas pushed his face in the back of his neck, breathing for a moment before pressing his fingers against Martin’s mouth. Martin began to suck them, the silence in the room broken only by the soft, wet, sucking noise. After a slow moment of feeling the soft, untarnished skin against his lips, Douglas bit hard on the juncture between shoulder and neck. He could feel the muffled groan of pain around his digits, Martin tensing hard before spitting them out, noisy little puffs of air emitting from his mouth as he fought to catch his breath. Douglas licked over the blooming purple bruise on the pale neck, sucking slightly on it before Martin jerked an elbow back and rammed it into his side.

“Argh!” he yelped, pulling back sharply as he almost folded against the sudden aching throb near his stomach. Without thinking, a hand darted forward and smacked Martin hard against the pale flesh of his exposed behind, the sickening crack of the slap breaking the air, a large pink blush crawling across the skin as he jolted forward. However before Martin could rise, Douglas quickly seized hold of both wrists in his hand, stretching himself over Martin and pinning the man down, the feeble wrist bones chafing against each other in his tight grip.

“Stay still,” he murmured, to his vague bewilderment, slightly breathily. He wasn’t sure if it was the continuous conflict between them or the pent up arousal, but one had taken hold of his lungs, squeezing hard. Douglas sucked in a deep breath, squirming slightly at the vibrating thrum of excitement dancing toward his groin at the exhale.

Martin wriggled, his bare backside pushing against Douglas’ crotch and the man had to close his eyes at the sudden contact, his free hand, still damp from Martin’s sucking, smoothing down his spine and snaking softly between those luscious cheeks. He ran his index finger over Martin’s entrance, circling it slowly and could feel Martin clench involuntary, before prodding, wriggling his wet finger inside and curling it. He began to thrust slightly, stretching Martin until he deemed it safe to add a second, pushing them in carefully, stretching Martin quickly. The man himself made not a move, his head buried in his outstretched arms, the soft curls on his head tickling Douglas’ chin.

After a moment, Douglas finally released Martin’s wrists to pull himself behind the man, gazing at the pink skin of his entrance stretched around his fingers. He thrust them in further, watching Martin’s furrowed anus clench and twitch around them before he crooked his fingers, pressing them softly against Martin’s prostrate. The man twitched, his shoulders jerking at the contact, as if electrified, choking out a whine as thin as gauze. In his mind’s eye, Douglas could see the creeping red crawl of blush slipping down Martin’s neck, blooming heavenly across his freckled shoulders. He could see it all: the dilation of blood vessels, the trails of red, of crimson and pink painting Martin, growing like beautiful red wisteria across a pale column. He could feel the heat, the sudden rush of warmth from Martin, the soft dip at the base of his spine pooling with sweat underneath his shirt.

Douglas’ own cheeks began to flush and he quickly extracted his fingers, snapping his belt open with little finesse and fumbled with his button and zipper, undoing them and pulling out his throbbing cock. He licked his palm and quickly slicked himself up before positioning himself forward, ignoring the treacherous part of his brain that shouted he was going to _hurt_ Martin. He didn’t care. Not at this point. And with that, Douglas forced Martin’s knees wider before pressing his hips against his flushed arse, positioning himself before leaning forward, gasping at the glorious sensation of sinking into Martin. In the moments they had clawed at each other, the countless thoughts running through Douglas’ mind of fucking Martin, the hot clench of muscle so deliciously tight around his cock was only matched by the pleasure of reality.

He let out a long, guttural groan, throwing his head back as he pulled back before thrusting in again to the hilt, taking a moment to admire the sensation. He shouldn’t have been this tight god, it was almost too much for him. He didn’t even pause to think if Martin had ever done this before, lying on the cold floor, his face buried in his arms, trembling softly like a virgin. He didn’t bother to think if this was hurting him, if their lack of sufficient preparation was a problem. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to worry about anything. Not this, not Martin, and not their friendship. He wanted to bask in the moment, the two of them fucking in the portacabin, throbbing with pain and arousal, smarted by their anger and frustrations at one another.

He couldn’t spare a thought for Martin, for the man’s feelings. Not now. Not when he was so close to winning, to breaking him. Douglas always got the last laugh.

He thrust forward again, keeping up a pace, their hips snapping together. The only sound in the room being the obscene wet slaps of skin on skin, their breathy pants moist and rasping. Martin rubbed his face against his arms, his shoulders shaking from the strain and Douglas realised he wanted noise. He wanted Martin to cry out and scream. Howl his name.

He seized Martin’s hips, slamming him back hard against him, striking his prostrate and watched as Martin arched, a muffled wail spilling from his lips. It was ambrosia to Douglas, who could not help but groan at the sound, his abdomen and hips tingling with the onslaught on his impending orgasm.

“God...” Douglas gasped, feeling a rush of heat over come him as Martin let out another whine, pushing back against the man, precome beading at the head of his cock and slowly dripping to the floor between his legs. Douglas snaked a hand around Martin’s thin, sinewy hip, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock and squeezing hard.

“A-ah!” Martin jerked forward as if electrified, choking on a moan as Douglas ran his thumb across the head, prodding lightly underneath the foreskin before swiping across the wet slit. Martin rubbed his head in his arms, his body quaking at the touch. He clenched around Douglas who gasped, thrusting harder as he toed the precipice of gratification. Stroking Martin one last time, he squeezed his hand hard and watched with no little amount of amazement as Martin fell apart, his back arching, throwing his head up as he wailed, coming hard.

He gritted his teeth as Martin tightened even further around him, stroking Martin throughout his orgasm before he himself fell, coming with a throaty sob.

“Martin!”

He came hard within the other, his thighs shaking, his nails digging into Martin’s hip as he cried out, both trembling until they rode the wave out, shivering softly in the hot room. Douglas came to his senses first, having more experience in the matter, and pulled away from the other. He watched with rapt fascination as Martin’s abused pucker tried to flutter closed, Douglas’ come trickling out, slipping in trails down the man’s cleft, to his flushed thighs. A part of Douglas, the miniscule, slightly cracked part that many people hid about themselves, was engrossed by the sight. He thought briefly, a sliver of an idea, of gathering that dribble of come with his finger, of pushing it back into Martin.

He blinked.

 _What?_

The thought dispersed as quickly as it came and soon enough the exertion of their activities caught hold. He didn’t bother stopping himself as he fell forward, groaning aloud as he collapsed in a heap beside Martin, rolling onto his back and blinking up at the dark ceiling. The air calmed somewhat, the sweat on his skin cooling, sticking to the hairs on his body. He sighed long and hard, the thud of his heart echoing for a short moment in his ears, proof that it was still indeed there.

The endorphins were wearing off, self destructing slowly with every piteous moment of feigned triumph Douglas held. He won. Once again Martin had succumbed to defeat.

So why was it taking a hideously long time for him to be happy about it? He was aching, sore and bruised and he was sure he could taste blood in his mouth. The bliss was there, it had to be. It was just lurking somewhere quietly under the muggy marshes of discomfort.

After a beat Martin finally crossed his mind, flittering somewhat in a vague, lazy panic. Almost obligatory panic. And thinking nothing of it, he spared a glance to the other, rolling his head on the hard floor to see him.

Which he suddenly wished he hadn’t.

Martin had flipped himself onto his back, his shirt rumpled, sticking to him in damp places, small but evident tremors quaking his form. His arm was thrown over his eyes, a gesture of self-consciousness, his frame suddenly looking so small and so vulnerable. That plump lip that had entranced Douglas so was worried between white teeth, gripped tightly as not to let the smallest whimper out, the tiniest sob, and it was then that Douglas finally realised what was wrong with the situation.

It dawned on him like things usually dawn on people. The slow build up of incline, of slight suspicion before the final clue was revealed, found after hidden so long. Like a puzzle finally complete. This however had a slightly more sinister flare than the usual glee one received after completing a jigsaw. This was a slow, abject awareness by some standard. The hopelessly miserable feeling one had after realising they had just done something rather wrong. Rather stupid.

Rather painful.

Although by no means was this like getting a tattoo and realising after you didn’t actually want it in the first place. Nor sleeping with a woman when you already had a doting wife waiting at home. This was breaking someone completely when they were already on the verge of cracking. This was smashing the pieces, grounding them to unrecognisable dust, blowing it away so it was gone forever.

This was Douglas ripping everything Martin had left from his scratching hands and taunting it in front of him. Destroying his status, his pride, his dignity.

Douglas just broke Martin.

And left him on the floor.

 _What did I just do?_

In a strange sense though, it all seemed to make sense, this dawning comprehension that Douglas was indeed a bastard at this very moment. He came in purposefully to goad Martin, he could not let it go and hindered him from leaving, and all throughout the following proceedings, as consensual as it was between the two, and Douglas knew it was consensual, it seemed that most of the entire situation was because of him.

 _No it wasn’t._

It was.

It was and it wasn’t. He didn’t know what it was. He was as confused about this as he was ashamed of himself, the tiny voice within his mind screaming at him earlier to leave Martin alone, rearing its head, staring in disgust at Douglas. He felt sick, his heart sinking low to his stomach and he realised then, somewhat in horror, that the feeling overcoming him now was something he hadn’t felt genuinely in a long time.

Guilt.

He knew now, staring dejectedly at Martin, close enough to touch, that if anyone owed an apology at this moment, it was him.

Could he do it though?

It didn’t matter if he could or not. He had to.

“Martin,” he murmured not for the first time that evening, the air quiet and cool. The shivers did not stop but the man’s fingers twitched, a small but evidently definite sign of acknowledgement. A stray curl coiled itself around the top of Martin’s ear and he wanted to reach forward and skim that soft curl, to brush it back gently, to try and find the pieces to the puzzle that was Martin Crieff.

“I’m sorry.”

For what though?

Qikiqtarjuaq?

Nancy?

Now?

It was one of them, maybe even all. He knew an apology would never have been enough but for now, god maybe for now, it’ll do. He hoped so.

Martin sighed, a long deep breath that trembled his wiry frame, raspy and so broken as it left his lips. He pulled the arm away from his face, the dark casting shadows across it, bellow those sharp cheekbones, underneath his sad eyes which were rimmed red, glistening with moisture. He rose to his feet, turning away from Douglas who could see, with a confusing amount of self disgust and mild arousal, his come shining on Martin’s thighs, glossy and gleaming in the rare strips of light that entered the room from the window. It was gorgeous, seeing Martin so debauched, so taken apart, so ravished. But so awful, and his heart wrenched painfully.

After a quiet moment Martin had gathered his underwear and trousers from around his knees and pulled them up, attempting to smooth his clothes into some sort of decency. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, untangling some of the curled knots before turning toward Douglas, who was still on the floor, staring up at Martin with a question in his eyes, something he himself wasn’t quite sure about.

 _What happens now?_

Martin must have seen it because he blinked rapidly, darting a tongue out to quickly swipe nervously over dry lips.

“I’ll...” he started softly, his voice throaty, raspy as if every word hurt him and Douglas fought to keep from wincing. His eyes were drawn to the large purple bruise on the man’s neck, the contusion flowering like a poppy, marring Martin’s skin. It was a sign that Douglas could not erase though, that neither of them could erase. Not until it faded to red, to pinks and yellows and muddy browns. But that wouldn’t be for weeks, months even.

The thought was both slightly surreal and frightening.

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

And he left.

 _I’ll see you on Monday._

What was that? An acceptance or a rejection? It was one of them but it raised the question lurking in Douglas’ mind as he lay there on the floor. The question of whether Martin accepted or rejected Douglas’ apology or Douglas himself.

It was one of them. He didn’t really know and to be honest, he was too tired to care for the moment. He’d find out one day eventually.

Maybe.

After all, there was always Monday.

END

A/N- I can't believe I wrote that... ^^; 


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